Ambition, Arrogance and Ancestry
by Thursday the 12th
Summary: Why Salazar Slytherin is better than you.
1. Sal's an Intelligent Boy

Salazar Slytherin knelt over his dissertation, grey eyes straining in the weak candlelight. Lumos. The end of his wand, lying on the mahogany table, lit up with a silvery light. His pen scratched across the parchment, leaving rows of small, even letters.

_"…And so I come to the conclusion,"_ he wrote,_ "that there is only one consideration when choosing students for the proposed school, and that is a magical heritage, a pureblood heritage. Exceptions may be made for those of halfblooded descent who have been raised solely by their magical parent."_

Slytherin paused, staring at the last sentence, and casually wiped it out with a simple spell. He then rewrote it, stared again for a long time, and let it be, remembering a long fight with Gryffindor.

_"I admit that there may be undiscovered talent among the muggle masses, but let me repeat again, with great power comes great responsibility. These muggle-borns cannot truly comprehend the vast science that is magic. They, new to our world, will believe magic as some sort of sinecure to the world's problems. And, understanding solely the great potential of magic, they will underestimate its restrictions, and so corrupt the very nature of their search. They will strive for immortality, and they will fail, or find success… but at what cost? For their ignorance, they will be our greatest witches and wizards, pushing the boundaries of our magical law; they will achieve the impossible. And with that terrible knowledge in their ignoble hands, they will destroy us. _

_It is in Muggle nature to mistrust us, to fear us. They have been brought up to despise that which they do not understand, and we are the epitome of that misunderstanding. Perhaps most will become entranced with their newfound power and find useful lives within the magical community. But it only takes one child, angered because he believes we had the power to save his father, his brother, his friend from death - only one emotional, unhappy child who does not understand the limitations of magic, to destroy us. Our secrets, our lives, are worth more than the anger of one muggle child. I do not want to wait until we find that one child, a month, a year, or fifty years from now. And yet, I cannot condone the death – for we will have no other choice when he is found – of that one child either._

_Please, let the muggle children live their own lives in peaceful ignorance, and let our superior children learn the art that is Magic. Do not force their worlds together, for only strife can result from such interaction."_

The quill dropped from Salazar's long, shaking fingers; a flick of his wrist cleaned the desk of ink and parchment. Then the young man smiled with satisfaction, lay down on his cot, and was asleep within the minute. So many long hours of discussion had gone into that dissertation, and now it was finished. Complete. Perhaps the King would understand, perhaps he was a lesser man than Salazar had thought. The smile remained on Slytherin's face as he slept, just another innocent academic with ambitions for the future. There was no sign, then, of the disillusioned man who would create the Chamber of Secrets, the man who would condone not the death of one, but of thousands of muggle children, the man who would look back at those deaths and think he had done the right thing.


	2. A Letter from Mum

_Dear Salazar,_

_Congratulations on the commission. I'm sure you'll make a great teacher. Your father and I are taking a trip to Persia to meet with some local snake charmers and we may have returned to the Isles when your project is finished, so I'm sending you my love and your father's in advance. _

_Your father is doing well, though he seems to have developed some sort of pain in his lower back that no healer can fix. It's a result of too much bending over to peer at some reptile if you ask me. Anyways, he seems to think that the desert air will help. Unfortunately, the owners of the magic carpet we are renting for the journey (one can't fit everything on the back of a broomstick!) have some aversion to the quantity of snakes your father wants to bring with him, so he's sending a few to you through his friend Percival McMahon. Do be a good boy and take care of them, for your father won't rest unless he thinks his pets are in good hands._

_How is Godric? That would be Gryffindor, if you didn't recognize the name. (Must you still retain the obnoxious habit of referring to your friends by their surnames?) I haven't seen him in months, and if your father gets his way, we won't return for years. He has gotten into his head the idea to tour some frightfully barbaric countries in search of some famous snake. Perhaps you've heard of it? It starts with a D, or maybe a B… I do not remember. It has the power to kill people with a single look. (Remind you of anyone?) Absolutely frightful. _

_Oh dear, I've forgotten the name of that snooty girl you were fancying. You know, the one that constantly wears that crown like she's some sort of princess? Well, how is she doing? You must write to me more often, it's a bore being dragged around with your father to all these amphibian discussions. _

_Your father is glaring at me as if I'm using up all the ink, even though he knows perfectly well that this is the never-ending inkpot he gave me on our fifteenth anniversary. He's sending you a list of all his pets and their respective eating habits so you won't forget._

_Dearie me, almost forgot. How could I? How is dear Helga? Is she still on that cooking phase of hers? The girl ought to have gotten over that by now, or she'll have to watch her figure in the future. Eat to live, don't live to eat. (Although your father ought to eat more. He's forgetting to take his medicine too. I dare say he'd fade into a wisp if I wasn't around.) Besides, cooking isn't quite proper for a young lady like herself. It's fine for those of the lower classes, but she's a lady, or will be soon at any rate. _

_Well, your father is threatening to do the packing himself, and he will forget to bring his reptile books and blame me later if he does, so I better end this letter now. _

_Your Loving, _

_Mother_

_Post-Script: Your father sends his love as well. I know you two haven't been in touch for a while, but… Just remember that. _


	3. A Misty Morning

A year passed, and the verdict was made, and a tract of land in Scotland was cleared of its previous residents. The four: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin, made do with what they had, the old castle, the nearby forest, the questionable waters of the lake. They combined their magic and were halfway to creating something that the world had never seen before: a place where young witches and wizards could be free to practice their magic without worrying about muggles. This is not where the story begins, but it's a good enough place to pick up as any other.

Mist blanketed the ground, giving a touch of the unearthly to the lake and surrounding areas. The scene was palely lit by a sun that hid behind the clouds, refusing to burn the vapor away. Of the unbearable August heat there was no sign, the temperature remaining at a mild coolness though it was nearly mid-day. The face of the lake was unbearably cool, flat, calm – the exact opposite of Slytherin's mind as he gazed down into the blue depths. His reflection gazed back from the mirror-like surface, refusing to show Salazar anything more than a pale boy-man with a laconic twist to the mouth.

Salazar tossed a stone into his reflection, ripples twisting his visage. _That's more like it_. The depressing mood he was in called for sarcastic, self-deprecating comments. And why, you might ask, was this superbly talented, intelligent young man in such a gloomy mood? It had all started yesterday, when he had received a summons – a summons, of all things – from Rowena Ravenclaw. Put into the stew of emotions a giant and Gryffindor's giant ego, and what had started out as a lovely outing became a lovely debacle of testosterone-driven comments and a feeling of tension which had bled into the next day, ruining a perfectly good morning.

The plan had been to make a trip to the castle across the lake first thing in the morning and start working on the dungeons. However, after seeing the telltale marks left in the grass by a certain young woman's dress, Salazar had opted to stay out of the castle; avoiding the others was more important than his desire to make home improvements. From his vantage point across the lake, he watched Gryffindor appear, and felt doubly disheartened. He would have liked to spend a few minutes with Godric, walking along the edge of the lake in silence repairing their friendship, but he dithered about, his pride barring him from calling out. By the time he made up his mind, Godric had already disappeared into the depths of the castle, probably following Rowena around like a sad puppy. Salazar snorted.

In the distance, the water surged, bubbles rising to the surface. Salazar had heard tales of a giant squid, and waited patiently for a tentacle to pierce the surface of the lake. He leaned towards the water, arms raised perpendicular to the ground like an ungainly bird. His dark mood demanded that he hope the squid would pounce, dragging him to a watery grave. His ego then demanded that he dismiss the suggestion; his great powers would certainly be enough to vanquish a puny squid.

The bubbles subsided, Salazar slumped onto a nearby fallen log, wincing as the rotted wood gave way, spraying Slytherin with splinters and termites. "Merlin's beard!" Slytherin swore loudly, staggering up and brushing off the bugs. Would nothing go right today? Salazar tried to stalk away but ended up hobbling until he found a clean patch of grass. He lay prone, hidden to most of the world by the tall cattails of the lake on one side, the darkness of the forest on the other. Thin, pale fingers moved to cover his grey-green eyes in a salute of defeat. Momentary defeat. World domination to ensue. Later.

Head to the ground, Slytherin could feel the footsteps long before he heard them. At the moment, he didn't care if it was a centaur or Gryffindor's scrawny little sister or even Professor Keating, who had painfully taught him Ancient Runes when he was a little boy at the Wizard's Court. All he cared was that they leave.

"Go 'way. Can't you see I'm trying very hard to make the earth swallow me whole? Digging your own grave, that sort of thing."

To illustrate his point, Salazar used one hand to pull up a clod of dirt, depositing it on his chest with a muffled sigh.

"Begging your pardon, Salazar."

Lying on his back, contemplating the end of the world, Salazar started as he heard a voice, even though he had addressed its owner first. His startled eyes popped open, pupils dilating, and then closed halfway as he recognized Helga by her mass of red-gold hair. An extended hand, ready to snatch at the unwelcome intruder, fell back on the grass with a dull thump.

With little concern for the state of her dress, Helga sat upon the ground beside Salazar, brushing the skirts back until they concealed her legs as she settled into the damp grass.

"You're just the person I wanted to see," he murmured, relaxing as Helga scraped the dirt off his chest. The familiar act was a little unsettling to Slytherin, who normally held an air of aloofness, but tired muscles and a little mental strength kept him from wiggling out from underneath her hands. With anyone else he would have felt more than a little foolish, but he had reconciled looking worse than strange to Helga a long time ago. His statement wasn't exactly true; rather than a desire to see Helga, he had the intense non-desire to see everyone else. Helga was desire-neutral, which put her at the top of his list.

Salazar peered out at his friend through the curtain of his dark lashes, wondering what she wanted to ask him about. Gryffindor's mind was an open book that Salazar frequently referenced, using that knowledge to his own advantage. He would prod Rowena's barriers if he wanted to ask her a silent question, and simply wait for her experienced mind to respond in like if she was in a good mood. If she was in a bad mood, he'd retreat behind his own walls and wait for the eventual attack. With Helga, however, it was much more rewarding to wait for a vocal reply. He found the sound of her voice soothing. Besides, there was something inherently _wrong_ about intruding on Helga's mind. Mountains, Molehills, something like that. The dew was beginning to soak through Salazar's cloak so he propped himself up with his elbows, shaking the dirt out of his hair. The bump on the side of his head began to throb again after the sudden movement; his pride kept him from asking healing and his own skills did not lean towards that area of magic.

Salazar wanted Helga to ask him why he was in a despondent mood. Then he could, with a perfect conscience, rant about their mutual friends to his heart's content. To provide her with further indication of his sadness, he opened his eyes to their misty grey widest, and stuck out his lower lip just a little. He'd practiced this look in front of the mirror. He knew it looked cute. 


End file.
